The boy rubs his hands through his thick, ever-messy, raven-wing hair and groans. His eyes are scrunched up tight behind circle-frame glasses, and his face is strained. I look over his features. They are still so smooth with youth.

And mine … mine so wrinkled, pitted and permanently scarred from old age.

And yet …

The fate of the world, both Muggle and Wizarding, rested on his inexperienced shoulders.

No, that isn’t right – inexperienced he is not. You could not live through the death of your parents, godfather, friend and mentor and several battles with Voldemort and be labelled ‘inexperienced’.

In the ways of people and the world, he is, however, somehow still naïve.

That pure innocence shines ever-bright in his eyes, making you forget the fierce determination that can replace it in the heat of battle, belying the power that he has yet to understand.

He has never realised it.

Despite the signs of his power, despite those who know well enough actually telling him of it, he is still oblivious as to what he can do.

And that is what makes Harry Potter a true hero, though few know it, thinking of him as some poor, orphaned poster-boy for the fight against Voldemort. Yet he does so much more than that – than all of us.

The Wizarding world had mourned when Albus Dumbledore died – some from grief, but many – many – immediately wailed, instead, of impending doom at the loss of their saviour.

I mourned, yes, but for the life of a good man. For the youth sitting at the table now who will have to deal with the task ahead of him alone. But never for fear of losing our futures to the terrors of the Dark Lord.

No, I have always known that it would come down to him. I am old and experienced enough to see that. They call me mad, but I’m more perceptive, more in-tune than they think. I realised.

And yet it is Dumbledore’s death that has, and will, make him stronger, more determined. Somehow I think the old codger knew that. He knew that it would only set the boy’s resolve into a slab of concrete resolution.

Boy.

That he is not.

Man.

Is he that yet, either?

He’s been through so much more than people thrice his age would have ever experienced.

But …

Only sixteen … not yet even of-age.

And yet we all count on him, whether we know it or not.

Eventually everyone else will see it though, and that is what I fear.

The Wizarding world needs someone to look up to, someone to follow and put their hopes in, someone to support.

But it shouldn’t be Potter.

The lad doesn’t need that support, or that pressure. He is strong enough to do with or without either, but I know that he’d prefer to be as far out of public view as he can. Well, as much as is possible, being The Boy Who Lived.

I know that as soon as he is noticed, with his natural abilities of both power and leadership, he will take on the iconic role that Dumbledore had filled in the hearts of witches and wizards everywhere … maybe even surpass it.

The Daily Prophet, as hopeless and idiotic as the paper is, unintentionally put their finger on it precisely. They posted articles relating to both Potter and Dumbledore in the year of the Dark Lord’s return – first to discredit them and then to repair the paper’s own reputability. Someone must surely have realised – though maybe they didn’t realise for the same reasons – that they are both as dangerous as each other.

And yet they are so different.

Dumbledore, rest his soul, so eccentric and calm and life-worn, while Harry so young, idealistic and Gryffindor-like. He is quick to anger, and the first one to act, often rushing in head-first rather than thinking things through beforehand. It comes with his age, I guess, but I know he will never have the same concept of thought and logic over everything else. No, Potter follows his heart, his emotions. Although Dumbledore always claimed being a fool when he did so himself, I somehow think that it is to the lad’s advantage.

I dip my head slightly to get a better view of him. It is a strange thing, seeing him like this – you never knew what it can bring you. For lads his age, it could mean trouble with a girl, a bad game of Quidditch, failing school grades, but with Harry … well, it could mean all that, or much worse. Our fate is in his hands, after all.

The Order could work as hard as they can to bring the Dark Lord down, and yet I know that, inevitably, this lad could do more than everyone else put together.

I don’t know what Dumbledore had been doing last year to have his hand so utterly ruined, charred beyond recognition, but whatever it was, it is now up to Potter. He is doing it at this moment, I can tell. Auror’s instincts, you might say.

Or maybe we are just too alike.

They call him unperceptive, too, and claim he is too easy to read. Yet that is the exact thing – you think you understand everything that goes on in his head, and he turns it back around on you. He’s deeper than they think. More complicated. I, for one, don’t envy him.

Or maybe I do. To be able to know exactly where your heart lies – to be able to put your mind to doing something and for it to just … happen.

But I’m not sure if he knows that.

He absently rubs his scar.

A reminder of his connection, his burden, his obligation, to the fate of the world.

To be linked to something so evil and … and just plain wrong …

I have to forcibly restrain myself from shuddering.

Even I, as world-hardy as I always think myself to be, find that a difficult concept to face.

My burdensome experiences are nothing compared to this, I have to admit.

‘That bad, is it?’ I ask gruffly, as always.

He looks up at me and, as many faces as I’ve seen, I’m still shocked by it. Although smooth and line-free, it holds some unknown sense of age to it, whether it be from the pressure of being who he is, or the many losses he’s suffered before he’s even finished school, or perhaps from his painful up-bringing.

But he’s never let it stop him, or allowed him to think of himself as unfortunate, or complained about it. None even knew the atrocities that he’d gone through as a child, and is still going through under his relatives’ care, until recently. And I suspect we still don’t know everything now, and never will.

Suddenly, his mother’s emerald eyes light up in his face, and his father’s roguish grin spreads across his lips.

As helpless as he feels, he somehow manages to fill me with hope, this boy of sixteen.

This lad – he’s been forced into taking responsibility for something he neither did nor didn’t do, for something that never should have happened

And yet he smiles.